


Dangerous Games

by azriona



Series: Dangerous Games [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - World War II, M/M, Summer Mystrade Exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-15
Updated: 2014-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-13 06:48:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2141139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>June 1944.  The Germans have won the war, and Mycroft is coming home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dangerous Games

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghislainem70](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghislainem70/gifts).



> Many thanks to Kizzia for the Brit-pick/beta and Mildredandbobbin for the beta and reassurance. Also thanks to Frodosweetstuff for her assistance with the German translations, and Chocolamousse with the French. ~~(Do I hear any takers for the Italian?)~~ Thank you to Moonflower75 for her help with the Italian! 
> 
> This was written for ghislainem70 for the [Mystrade Summer Exchange](http://summermystradeexchange.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr. Ghislainem requested smut, angst, and an AU. This is my attempt to write all three. I hope s/he likes it.
> 
> Cover art is by Ghislainem (who does like the story! Yay!). Tell her how lovely it is on her [AO3 post](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2151039) or her [Tumblr post](http://ghislainem70.tumblr.com/post/94979377529/i-did-a-cover-for-my-summer-mystrade-exchange-fic).

The train is overcrowded, but Mycroft boarded so early that he’d managed to secure a seat for himself near a window, and as far as he can tell, no one begrudges him for it.  It’s either the uniform he wears that frightens them off, or the fact that he has been ill the previous two weeks and looks the part.  It would almost be a blessing to stand instead; the train’s suspensions have long since worn to nothing, and the rattling and rocking motions are almost as bad as the swells of the waves on the Channel the day before.  Mycroft had barely managed to hold on to the thin soup in his stomach.  The soup had been terrible: watery and salty and tasting strongly of turnips, but it would have been a shame to lose what little nutritional value it might have offered.

 

Then again, had he aimed properly, he could have lost the lot on his handlers’ shoes.

 

They stand just behind his seat, swaying with the easy grace of men accustomed to standing on rickety old trains, smoking cigarette after cigarette in an unending chain.  The smoke muddles Mycroft’s aching head and makes it harder to think and that, more than the familiar countryside dotted with hand-painted German signs, is what disconcerts him.  Mycroft has lost all sense of time, and in a way, it’s comforting.  Perhaps it’s not a chain of cigarettes, but just the one, and the time taken to smoke it extends into infinity.  Mycroft will always be on this train, shaking and swaying its slow way up to London.  Mycroft _has_ always been on this train, or at least it feels like he’s been traveling for a thousand years.

 

Two weeks ago, he woke in a reasonably comfortable hotel room in Cairo, with views of the Nile and the Pyramids.  Before the day was out, he was told it was time to go home.

 

Home.  As if such a comforting place exists anymore.

 

His handlers talk to each other, their German soft and guttural in increasingly mixed doses, and if he were well, he would be able to translate their words effortlessly.  As it is, the German makes his headache worse; trying to converse in it would surely do him in.  He keeps his eyes closed.  It doesn’t matter what they say, as long as they don’t say it to him. 

 

The train shudders as it grinds to a halt, and no one on board seems the least bit concerned.  It has happened too many times already. 

 

“Schon wieder eine Bombe auf der Strecke. Scheiß Engländer.” 

 

(Another bomb on the track. Shitty Englishmen.) 

 

“Die scheinen das feige Schwein, das die Bombe gelegt hat, erwischt zu haben.” 

 

(They seem to have caught the cowardly pig who planted the bomb.) 

 

Translating the German into English is rote by now; already Mycroft’s ear gravitates towards it, as if the buzz of English conversation and the sound of shots fired in the distance are not happening.  With the German in his ear, and the familiar sound of gunfire, it is easier to pretend that he hasn’t returned to Occupied England at all.

 

*

 

_He sits beside him on the narrow seats, kissing his fingertips one by one, as the train rocks them slowly home.  Light brushes across Greg’s features, blinking dim and dark in turn as the train glides past the exterior buildings, already filtered by the closed shades.  Mycroft holds his breath; time moves slowly, dripping second by second as Greg deliberately presses his lips to Mycroft’s palm.  Mycroft cups his hand, feels the stubble rough against his skin._

_“When did you last shave?” he asks, his throat still tight and raw, and Greg chuckles._

_“I’ll shave when we get there,” he promises, and leans forward for a kiss._

 

*

 

In June of 1942, after much delay, the German army began a concentrated assault on the British Isles.  Called Operation Sea Lion, the assault took the better part of a year to break the backs of the British Army, Navy, and Air Force, and was only successful because of the previous damage inflicted on the island during the Blitzkreig.

 

When the Germans finally advanced on London, the city was nearly unrecognizable.  Few notable buildings remained standing.  As per request from the Führer, Westminister Abbey was largely untouched.

 

It took another six months for the war to end, and when it did, those who had opposed the Germans were scattered to the winds.  After all, history is written by the winners.

 

*

 

“Wach auf. Wir sind da.”

 

(Wake up.  We’re here.)

 

Mycroft hadn’t realized he was asleep.  His bones and muscles ache with the effort of standing, and he stumbles slightly as he alights from the train, his handlers still directly behind him.  Two thin men, each of them one good meal away from malnutrition.  The taller of the two – Rudolf – is from Bavaria, some little town that doesn’t bear remembering, speaks exceedingly proper German and passable English, though he only cares to use it when it suits him, which is rare.  Two sisters, three nephews, and a mistress in Berlin who writes every other day like clockwork.  He hasn’t heard anything from her in two weeks, but that is likely due to traveling; he fully expects to have a batch of letters arrive in another week and is looking forward to them.

 

They push Mycroft down the platform to the station, and Mycroft lets them.  It’s easier than trying to remember the way himself.

 

The shorter of his handlers – Gunter – is from Berlin, though not a particularly fashionable part of it.  His German is a bit rough around the edges – he clearly spent some time below the poverty level as a youth, and perhaps missed a few years of school as a result – and there is a rather large chip on his shoulder that takes up residence with worries of his own inadequacy.  His English is terrible, nearly non-existent, and he refuses to speak it at all, claiming the words taste like shite in his mouth.

 

They stop Mycroft in the middle of the station, conversing between themselves as they try to determine the way to go.  Mycroft could tell them, but instead he looks up at the high crossbeams that line the rafters of Waterloo Station, and watches the birds that are trapped inside dart back and forth.  They flap their wings and soar, and every so often, dive down to fight over the crumbs around the rubbish bins. 

 

“WAY OUT” say the signs leading to the Tube and the street.  The Germans behind Mycroft continue to argue, and Mycroft continues to ignore them.

 

*

 

There is shiny black Daimler waiting outside to take them to Downing Street, where the Prime Minister waits for them.  Mycroft sits in between his handlers.  They are mercifully quiet; neither has been to London before, but they have enough decency not to ask him what they’re seeing as the car speeds them through the nearly empty streets. 

 

It’s just as well.  Mycroft doesn’t look out the windows.  He can’t.  It’s too painful.

 

He knows the schedule.  Today is largely ceremonial – more for his benefit than those he is to meet, in order to remind him of the new world order.  Downing Street, followed by Buckingham Palace, where he will meet with the newly-installed old king and his consort.

 

Then tomorrow, to Gower Street, where the real work will begin.

 

*

 

_The train jerks sharply on the tracks, and Greg falls into Mycroft’s lap.  He laughs, the skin crinkling around his bloodshot eyes.  Mycroft can feel the relief roll off him in waves, but he is deadly serious as he runs his fingers along the thin fabric of Greg’s shirt near his waist.  He can feel the heat from Greg’s skin, feel his stomach rise and fall as his breath quickens. Greg straddles Mycroft’s legs and knocks his hat to the floor so he can run his fingers through Mycroft’s hair._

_“You are a piece of work, you know,” says Greg, amused.  Mycroft thinks he can feel Greg’s heartbeat thrum through him._

_“Worth it, I hope.”_

_The train jerks again; Mycroft tightens his grip on Greg to keep him from flying, and Greg’s hands slip to Mycroft’s shoulders.  Mycroft reaches up and catches his hands; their rings glint in the thin light from the shaded windows.  He runs his fingers along Greg’s metal band, and Greg smiles._

_“Do you know how long I’ve waited for this?” asks Greg, gravel in his voice._

_“Nearly as long as I thought I wouldn’t have it again,” says Mycroft, and Greg sighs in almost agreement.  It’s a quiet moment as they listen to each other’s breath, recalibrate each to match the other.  Greg closes his eyes briefly, before leaning down to kiss him again._

_Greg tastes like ash and salt and exhaustion and joy, and the kiss turns rough as the growl rises in Greg’s throat.  Mycroft’s fingers press against Greg’s skin.  Greg has already begun to push and pull Mycroft’s coat again, shoving it down Mycroft’s arms in a desperate attempt to remove it, but Mycroft doesn’t dare let him go long enough to help._

 

*

 

“So glad to see you again, old chap,” the (Prince-Duke-) King says, and shakes Mycroft’s hand as if they’d been old friends.  The King’s tan has faded, leaving wrinkles and dark spots behind.  His hand is cold and clammy, and he grips Mycroft’s hand a little too tightly, as if he is hoping Mycroft will be a sort of anchor or lifeline.

 

“Indeed, your majesty,” says Mycroft, and he’s pleased enough to have achieved the best possible ratio of cool detachment and warm regard.  The King, to his credit, seems to realize it, and drops Mycroft’s hand, but not his congenial demeanor.

 

“I forget, did you know Wallis?  Sorry she couldn’t be here, she’s got a to-do or something in the East End today.  Something to do with orphans.”

 

“I never did have the pleasure, your majesty.”  Not without some fancy footwork, at least.  Water under the bridge now.

 

“Leave your wife’s name with my assistant, I’m sure Wallis will invite her for tea or drinks or something.  She’s got some little circle or other – Mosley’s wife here is part of it.”

 

The new Prime Minister clears his throat.  “I believe Diana is with her today, as a matter of fact.”

 

“I’m not married, your majesty.”

 

The King eyes the ring on Mycroft’s finger.  “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says clearly.  “I thought—“

 

“My father’s,” says Mycroft, and the King stiffens so slightly that he probably doesn’t even realize he has done it. 

 

“Of course,” says the King, and to Mycroft’s relief, the matter is dropped.

 

*

 

_Mycroft isn’t sure if it’s the defibrillation of his heart or the vibration from the train that puts him into a strange, sleepy sort of lull as Greg kisses the skin behind his ear, the tendon along his neck, the bits of skin revealed as the buttons are undone, one by one.  Mycroft pulls the shirt out of Greg’s trousers, runs his hands along the skin under the vest.  If a porter were to walk in on them now, they’d never be able to explain themselves properly.  Just as well that Greg has locked the door, though they still go tense every time someone walks by._

_Greg pulls back.  “We can wait until we’re there.  We’ve got all the time in the world.”_

_But Mycroft knows differently.  “No,” he says roughly, and he pushes up against Greg, knocking them both from the seat onto the floor.  What was tender and tempered turns heated and urgent.  Greg, beneath him, laughs softly, stretches out in the small space as much as he is able, and doesn’t protest when Mycroft sends his buttons flying across the compartment._

 

*

 

It is dark by the time they are done at the Palace.  Mycroft is no longer exhausted; he’s so far beyond that point that everything has taken on a brighter hue.  The streets outside glow in the yellow lamplight, and his head pounds with German and English all mixed up.

 

Gunter and Rudolf walk on either side of him, attentive to the point of frog-marching him away.  They step in time with each other, their shoes clicking against the pavement.  It’s almost a relief to have them there; Mycroft has lived so long with the headache-inducing smog of German, a full day of English is almost too much fresh air in his lungs.  If he has much more of it, the relief might disable him permanently.

 

The Daimler is waiting just outside the gate.  Gunter opens the door to let Rudolf in, but when Mycroft tries to follow, he is roughly jerked back to the pavement.

 

“Glaubst Du, wir zahlen Dir ein Hotelzimmer? Du bist doch von hier. Geh nach Hause.” 

 

(You think we’re paying for your hotel room? Get out of here. Go home.) 

 

Mycroft blinks at him.  “London wurde zerbombt,” he says slowly, the words like rocks in his mouth. 

 

(London was bombed.) 

 

Gunter sighs, clearly exasperated. “Meinst Du, unsere Luftwaffe ist so treffsicher, dass sie gerade Dein Haus erwischt? Es steht noch einiges. Schau halt nach.” 

 

(Do you think our Luftwaffe is so good that it can pin-point your house? It’s still there. Go look.) 

 

Rudolf pushes his head out of the car again. His face, at least, is sympathetic, whereas Gunter is merely disgusted. “In the Montague Street, near the Museum?” 

 

“Yes,” says Mycroft. Of course they know. They know everything about him, even what he didn’t tell them.  

 

“Probably it was robbed during the Invasion, but it still stands,” continues Rudolf. He only speaks English when there’s a good reason. Gunter looks mutinous, which is probably reason enough.  

 

But there are other possibilities, and they’re ones that Mycroft doesn’t dare ignore. 

 

“Stay there and come to Gower Street in the morning to meet us. At exactly nine o’clock.” And then he repeats it, in German, so there is no doubt that Gunter can understand. 

 

Mycroft nods, and watches as the Daimler pulls away, leaving him alone for the first time in months. 

 

Barely even thinking, he starts to walk home.  It’s just under two miles, and the night is cool with mist.  In the dark, London still looks the same, as long as he doesn’t look at the skyline, which now resembles a ragged set of teeth instead of even rooftops. When he looks down, he sees the pockmarks in the road, the crumbled bits of pavement, yellow tape marking the spots that are particularly treacherous.  There are dark, gaping caverns where buildings once stood, and at the right angle, he can see eyes glowing in the yellow streetlights that flicker precariously.  They follow him as he moves through the silent streets, the mist swirling like smoke and ash around his ankles.  He can hear them scuttle on the pavement: too large to be rats, too small to be anything but starving. 

 

He remembers the untouched tray of biscuits at the Palace, and wishes he’d managed to slip a few into his pockets to leave behind him now. 

 

It’s easiest to look into the middle distance, and walk as quickly as his exhausted bones can manage.  He tries not to think, but his footsteps get quicker the closer he gets to home. 

 

* 

 

The cafes in Cairo remained open despite the war; the Cairiennes didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by the fighting that surrounded them.  It was far more important to meet with friends and family, drink their coffees and enjoy the sunshine now, particularly if it were all to end in the morning.  They filled the air with chatter: the French of the fine houses along the Corniche, the Egyptian Arabic of the working class, the diaspora of English and Greek and Turkish and Italian.  The entire world existed in Cairo. 

 

Mycroft liked the Egyptians he met; the men swirled overlarge moustaches and laughed with their entire bodies.  The woman shouted and playfully beat their husbands with the backs of their hands, threatened to do it with their shoes, and kissed them to make up for it afterwards. 

 

John Watson watched all of this with abject fascination, despite his inability to understand what they were saying. 

 

“Never could get my head around Arabic,” he told Mycroft with a bit of a grin.  They met for dinner nearly every night while John was in Cairo, less because they liked each other and more because they were each a reminder of a home. 

 

“Most of them speak French, anyway,” said Mycroft, and signaled to the waiter that they were ready to order. 

 

“Even worse,” said John.  “They don’t have fish and chips, do they?” 

 

“No,” said Mcyroft, and ordered for him. The café was crowded with people; it was a wonder how the waiters moved so seamlessly between tables at all, carrying piping hot coffees and kebabs and bowls of lentil soup.  Plates of green-and-white tabouleh, triangles of bread, and yet more coffee to wash it all down.   

 

“I can’t decide if Sherlock would love it or hate it here,” said John as they ate.  “He’d either love it for its exoticness or he’d hate that he couldn’t read anybody because of it.” 

 

“Hate it, most likely,” said Mycroft.  “He never did care for anything outside of London.” 

 

“You should see his letters.  You’d think he was miserable if you didn’t know he was having the time of his life.” 

 

Mycroft paused, and read between the lines.  “He doesn’t send me letters.” 

 

John pressed his lips together.  He was clever enough, for a regular person.  “He’s not in London, Mycroft.” 

 

It wasn’t difficult to discern: Sherlock, who loved a puzzle more than anything else, except perhaps London.  Who was no longer in London, and from his letters to John, sounded bored but was clearly having the time of his life. 

 

“Ah,” said Mycroft, and John nodded, drinking his coffee. 

 

“Where else?” said John, almost amused.  “I’m not sure what bothers him more about it – that they make him stop working after eight hours to sleep, or that Dilly’s Fillies all think he’s adorable, no matter how horrible he is to them.” 

 

* 

 

The house on Montague Street is still standing, as well as the ones on either side and one house directly across.  The rest of the street is a shambles, the houses in various states of destruction.  Bits and pieces are missing; half of them are gone entirely.  Windows are broken, with the thin, tattered remains of curtains gently wafting in the breeze.  Lights flicker from inside rooms that may not be entirely structurally sound.  The blackout is long since over, but Londoners are still hesitant to show their locations. 

 

Considering the rumored reports of what happened when the Germans marched on London, it’s probably better, and safer, this way. 

 

The key to 15 Montague Street has been in Mycroft’s pocket since the day he left.  Affectation, habit…other men would have called it sentiment, but Mycroft pulls it out and tries it in the lock.  Entirely unnecessary; the door opens with a gentle push, and Mycroft steps inside, his heart hammering in his chest. 

 

The house is quiet and still.  It smells of dust and ash.  Mycroft walks through, his steps echoing in the rooms now devoid of decoration. 

 

The lighter pieces of furniture are gone; the heavier pieces remain in various states of disrepair.  Someone had taken an axe to the overly ornate sofa in the front room, trying to break it into pieces before carting it away, likely for firewood, before the old English oak bested them.  It sits by the window, battered and bruised and teetering dangerously to one side, but still there.  Mycroft stares at it for a long moment, before turning away to inspect the rest of the house. 

 

The floor is scattered with pictures, torn from silver frames that were probably melted down and sold for pennies.  At least whoever stole the frames was kind enough to leave the mementos.  Mycroft reaches down and runs his fingers over them.  It’s almost too dark to make them out properly, but he remembers each one of them exactly. 

 

Here is Sherrinford, age ten, the grin ever-present splitting his face.   

 

Mummy and Father, on their wedding day, his mother’s lace dress, which was later remade into the christening gown that adorns the baby Mycroft in a photo from about a year later.   

 

John Watson, his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, and Sherlock with his arm around John’s, both laughing at something off to the side. 

 

The three young Holmes brothers: Mycroft, Sherrinford, and Sherlock, posed on the grass for a formal portrait, while Redbeard’s tongue lolls out the side of his mouth in a doggy grin.

 

And Greg, his eyes bright, the smile not quite formed on his face, his hair slicked down with pomade.  Mycroft holds the photo of Greg in his hand for a moment, before he sets it back down and continues on his way to the bedrooms upstairs.

 

Redbeard died and was buried long before the war began.

 

Father was already in the coma when it was declared.  He died without waking up, which was something of a blessing for him, at least.

 

Sherrinford and Mummy, killed in the earliest days of the Blitz.

 

John, caught in one of the skirmishes on the Afghan-Indian border, and listed as missing in action.

 

Sherlock, at Bletchley Park.

 

And Greg, who should be have been here in the house, waiting for him.  Who was gone, without a trace.

 

God alone knew where Greg was.

 

*

 

“I have a disturbing report here,” said the German Commandant.  “It concerns your living arrangements in London prior to the war.”

 

The heat in Cairo was oppressive, even for January.  Mycroft’s shirt under his new German officer’s coat was already soaked with sweat, and the fabric rubbed along his neck itched terribly.  He didn’t dare scratch it.  The Commandant was known for protocol, and even his own German staff thought he was something of an arse.

 

Not that they said as much anywhere they could be overheard, of course.

 

Mycroft kept his back straight as he sat in the too-small wooden chair that the Commandant kept for guests in his office.  It kept him several inches lower than the Commandant, which he was sure was on purpose, as it made him feel as though he’d just been called into the Headmaster’s office.

 

“I apologize, Commandant,” said Mycroft carefully.  “I am not sure what is disturbing.  I shared rooms with another fellow in Montague Street.  It’s a rather expensive area of London.”

 

“But not for you,” said the Commandant pointedly.

 

Mycroft shrugged.  “Lestrade was a good friend, and was required to live closer to the city center than he could have afforded on his own because of his work.”

 

The Commandant glanced at the paperwork in the file.  “A policeman.”

 

“An inspector with Scotland Yard, yes.”

 

“A bit below your class, Holmes.”

 

Mycroft does not look away.  “He was usually on time with the rent, and he knew how to hold his drink.”

 

The Commandant leaned forward. “He was divorced before he moved in with you.”

 

“Yes.  His wife had an affair.”

 

“Interesting.  I have a different rumor written here: that it was he who was having the affair.  With another man.”

 

Mycroft raised his eyebrow.  “I’m fairly certain he was married to a woman.”

 

“So was Oscar Wilde,” said the Commandant dryly. 

 

Mycroft’s gaze was steady.  “If such a rumor was true, I never saw evidence of it.”

 

The Commandant said nothing; he continued to stare at Mycroft for a few moments, as if waiting for Mycroft to continue speaking.  After several moments of silence, while a drop of sweat worked its slow way down from Mycroft’s temple to the already damp collar of the infernal coat, the Commandant leaned back and closed the folder.

 

“Of course we cannot have any of our officers with any sort of connection to…delinquents such as these.  They have no place in the Reich and must be—”  The Commandant’s mouth twisted.  “Removed to where they cannot poison a righteous society.  You understand.”

 

“I do,” said Mycroft.

 

The Commandant folded his hands over the folder.  “You may go.”

 

Mycroft walked steadily out of the office, and back to his own desk, and it was only after he sat down that he realized how badly his knees were shaking.

 

*

 

The meetings at Gower Street are endless volleys in German and English.  Mycroft passes his countrymen in the corridors; they avert their eyes from each other, automatons anxious to continue walking.

 

_You too, old chap?_

 

He tries not to think about the coworkers he doesn’t see, the places on the roster that once were filled with Millers and Smiths and Taylors, now filled with Muellers and Schmitts and Schneiders. 

 

“Your house was in order?” asks Rudolf.

 

“Yes, quite,” says Mycroft, and does not elaborate.  Rudolf does not press, and Mycroft breathes a sigh of relief.  They leave him alone at lunchtime, and he eats in silence, grateful for the respite from trying to keep two languages at the forefront of his mind simultaneously. 

 

He debriefs, discusses, deliberates, and in between meetings, pops the little pills that do nothing to quell his headache.  He does not think about Greg, or where Greg might be.  If he ran willingly, or with the Germans at his heels.  If he tried to leave a message behind – or didn’t have time to leave a message at all.

 

It’s the middle of the afternoon when the Gestapo enters the conference room, and the conversation, which had been focused entirely on the situation in Palestine, comes grinding to a halt.  Mycroft’s heart pounds as the man stares pointedly at each of the Englishmen in turn – his gaze slides right over the Germans, obvious in their uniforms. He turns his gaze on Mycroft, and stops. Mycroft’s mouth goes dry. 

 

This is it, then.  They have found Greg, or they had him all along.  They will take him away, and throw him into jail, question and shout and rape and a thousand horrible things, and then they will kill him.

 

But the officer’s eyes continue, resting on the man next to Mycroft.  Wilkes, who might have been stocky once but is no longer, with thin hair and a quick and nervous laugh. 

 

“Herr Wilkes,” says the officer.  “You are hereby arrested on suspicion of collaboration with the English resistance.”

 

“No.  No!  That’s preposterous,” cries Wilkes, but the man simply flicks his fingers, and Wilkes is taken by the arms and hauled up to his feet.  He’s dragged to the front of the room, where the officer reaches into Wilkes’s pocket and pulls out the carefully folded papers there.  “I…keep notes.”

 

“In your pocket?  Of secret documents?”  The officer flicks his fingers again, and Mycroft can hear Wilkes’s screams as he is dragged down the hall. 

 

The officer nods his head to the room at large.  “Gentlemen, I apologize for the interruption.”

 

Wilkes keeps screaming, until there is a shot that sounds like a door slamming. 

 

It happens so quickly that Mycroft barely believes it happened at all.  The only reason he knows it did is because of the guilty relief that lingers long after Wilkes’s body is removed.

 

*

 

The rest of the week goes by quickly and painfully slowly in turns.  Even the Germans rest on Sunday, and Mycroft spends the day cleaning the house on Montague Street, boarding up the broken windows, sweeping away the dust and cobwebs and the worst of the broken furniture.  He does not board a train for Bletchley Park, but he knows the train schedule by heart.

 

*

 

_It is good, like this: the vibrations of the train thrumming through their bodies, pressed close together.  The increased friction, the jostling of already slicked and sensitive skin heightening the mix of pleasure and pain.  Their clothes are in complete disarray, their breath comes in short gasps that match the clickety-clickety-click of the tracks._

_Mycroft presses his nose into Greg’s neck; Greg kisses his ear, runs his fingers along Mycroft’s forearm, wraps his hand around Mycroft’s wrist, holding him steady._

_Mycroft lifts himself to look into Greg’s eyes, deep and dark and staring up at him with a sort of reverent awe._

_Slowly, Mycroft begins to move against him. Greg’s gaze doesn’t falter._

 

*

 

By the second week, Rudolf and Gunter settle into their routine.  Rudolf reads the letters that have finally arrived from his mistress, and continues to smile over each one as he rereads them.  When he thinks no one is looking, he presses the paper to his lips and closes his eyes.  He writes to her every night; the ink stains his fingers, and he spends a fortune on postage.

 

Gunter has no English girlfriend, but the hungry look in his eyes seems lessened, his uniform a little tighter.  Mycroft watches as he eats his lunches and licks his fingers, completely content.

 

Mycroft walks between Gower and Montague every morning and every evening – it’s too close to use any other method of transport, even if other methods were convenient.  They’re not.  Euston Square Station is boarded up, as the Tube has long since stopped working.  Its stations may have been too deep for destruction, but there is no money left to run the trains anyway. 

 

He passes storefronts where he used to buy his vegetables, his books, his newspapers.  The McGanns still sell their lettuces and turnips, when they have them, and they look at him with hollow eyes that are too tired and fearful for any other kind of emotion. 

 

To all outside eyes, he is the consummate English-turned-German officer.  He knows what they see when they look at him: a turncoat.  A traitor to the previous crown.  A patriot in reverse.  It doesn’t matter what they think.  He’s alive, what little good that will do him.

 

The news-agent has a hastily written sign plastered on the windows: “Closed for further business.”  There are swastikas and stars painted on the glass and brick.  Mycroft knows if he stops to look in the windows, he’ll see the stands overturned, yellowing newspapers lining a floor stained red.  He will not see the Cohns who worked there or lived in the rooms above.  The entire building is as hollow as the eyes of their former neighbors.

 

He doesn’t stop.  He doesn’t dare.  Every night, five minutes after he arrives home, the lights go on in the house across the street, and after he goes to bed, the lights go out.  Without fail.

 

*

 

It was late when Mycroft made it back to the little hotel room off the Corniche.  He leaned against the wall, breathing heavily, and waited a moment to turn on the light.

 

The man stood in the center of the room, facing Mycroft.  That was all Mycroft had time to register, and it was enough; the moment the man took a step forward, Mycroft had him up against the wall, face pressed into the slightly raised patterns on the wallpaper as his arm was twisted behind him.

 

“Scusa, scusa!” gasped the man.  Mycroft didn’t loosen his hold.  Instead, he began to take stock: the smell of pomade in the man’s hair, the scent of lavender soap on his skin, still warm and damp from the shower.  The bed, freshly made – and certain items placed prominently on the side table. 

 

The man wore a bathrobe which wasn’t even tied at the waist. 

 

Mycroft let go of him abruptly, and stepped back.  “Get out,” he said firmly.  “Now.”

 

The man turned to look at him, his eyes dark and wide.  Mycroft didn’t even let his eyes cast downward; he focused on the man’s face, which thankfully looked about as different from Greg’s as possible.

 

“Non ti piaccio?”

 

“No,” said Mycroft, thankful that the word was the same in Italian and English, so there would be no doubt.

 

The man looked down, and then back up at Mycroft’s face.  He nodded, briefly, and walked past Mycroft into the lavatory to dress.

 

Mycroft did not move a muscle until the man had left the room entirely.

 

He threw the lubricants and condoms out the window.  Some poor sod would use them, he had no doubt.

 

*

 

Sometime during the third week – Mycroft has lost track of the days, they all blend together when he’s in a state of trying not to think too hard – the Prime Minister says to him, “Your brother was at Bletchley Park, wasn’t he?  Clever young chap.”

 

Outwardly, Mycroft is still his calm and rational self.  Inside, he is blinking rapidly, his heart pounding.  His blood feels as if it has been replaced with fizzy lemonade.  He looks at his conversation partner, and wonders where his mind has been the last few minutes. 

 

The German officer at the end of the table looks up sharply.  “This is not in your file.”

 

“He never said as much to me,” Mycroft tells them.  “Though I suppose he wouldn’t have, in any case.”

 

The German is already growing pink at the edges of his ears.  “This information should be in your file.  Family associations with highly classified information—”

 

“You and Sherlock were never close, were you,” says Mosley quickly, his eyes darting back and forth between them, his voice still calm and collected. 

 

“No,” admits Mycroft.  “We exchanged very few letters during the recent conflict.  From what he said, I always gathered that he was disinclined to assist the war effort in any way.”  It’s not entirely inaccurate.

 

“A pacifist,” says the German with profound disgust, and Mycroft shrugs.

 

“Perhaps.  He would have been more interested in the puzzles, than the solution itself.”

 

Mosley’s eyes gleam, and Mycroft wonders if the words are enough.

 

“Bletchley Park would have been a good place for him, then,” says Mosley.  “Poor chap.”

 

For the first time in three weeks, Mycroft doesn’t know quite how to respond.  “Yes,” he finally says.  “Poor chap.”

 

*

 

The next night, there was a girl waiting for him.  She was young – no more than seventeen – and so afraid she couldn’t even open her mouth.  Her skin was the color of the lightest coffee, and her dark hair fell in waves down her back.

 

He closed the robe around her, gently.  Her eyes grew even more afraid, and he sighed.

 

“Vous êtes très belle, mais je suis très fatigué. Dites-leur ce que vous avez besoin de leur dire quand ils viendront vous chercher au matin.”

 

(You are very beautiful, but I am very tired.  Tell them what you need say when they collect you in the morning.)

 

She slept, still clutching the robe around her.  He sat in the chair and watched the sun rise, and hoped it would be enough.

 

*

 

Gunter has filled out during his weeks in London.  Food is scarce on the streets; every day during his walk to and from work, Mycroft passes children huddled in the corners, whose eyes bulge from too-thin faces.  The sign seems to be permanently fixed in the grocer’s window: “No veg today. Potatoes aplenty.”

 

Gunter’s cheeks are fuller now; his eyes a bit brighter.  The buttons on his shirt strain when he sits down, and he has finally stopped gobbling his food as if someone might steal it from him.  Instead he eats, if not leisurely, at least chewing every bite thoroughly, enjoying every flavor before swallowing.

 

They are on their way back to the conference room when the Commandant passes them in the hall. 

 

“Have you been to Berlin before, Herr Holmes?” he asks.  In any other world, Mycroft might have liked him.  He’s a friendly bloke with a slight smile, and a sharp intellect.  His English is excellent, with the faint tell-tale signs of an education at Harrow and Oxford – no doubt why he was given this particular assignment.  He might even have a sense of humor; it’s hard to tell in the confines of their planning sessions. 

 

“I cannot say I have had the pleasure,” replies Mycroft.

 

“You will enjoy it, I think,” says the Commandant. 

 

“Someday, perhaps.  There is much work to be done in London still.”

 

The Commandant looks surprised.  “You have not heard?  Tuesday next.  The arrangements have already been made.”

 

“Ah,” says Mycroft.  The word is mangled, forced past his suddenly pounding heart.  “I…no.  I was not informed, but I look forward to it.”

 

They continue on their way.  When tea is delivered later that afternoon, Gunter swipes all the biscuits from the tray.  Mycroft is the only one who notices.

 

*

 

The train from Euston Station is impossibly slow.  Mycroft boards the first train on Sunday.  It should be a short enough journey – barely an hour – but there are of course delays and stoppages.  Mycroft reads his newspaper and tries not to listen to the shouting outside the train as whatever debris that has appeared on the track is cleared away.

 

The station in Bletchley is deserted; the town is quiet, even for a Sunday.  Mycroft isn’t the only one who disembarks; there’s a teenaged girl and her mother at the other end of the platform, and after careful consideration Mycroft determines that they are unlikely to be German spies.

 

The girl seems to be giving him the same careful assessment that he gives her.  She’s just a little less circumspect about it.  She has dark skin and even darker hair that won’t stay bound behind her head, and when Mycroft looks directly at her, her brave façade slips.  She looks afraid and small for a brief moment, a reminder of the bravery of frightened young women.

 

Mycroft looks away, allows her to regain her measured illusion of safety.  The girl puts her arm around her mother, and they shuffle off in the opposite direction.

 

It is a short walk between the station and the house, and it is a fine day to be walking.  The birds sing in the trees and the sky is a deep blue and dotted with clouds.  It’s the sort of day that makes London feel a thousand miles and a hundred years away, conjures images of Sherrinford and Sherlock causing explosions in the kitchen at Montague Street, Buckingham Palace ringing with the laughter of princesses. 

 

The gates outside Bletchley Park hang open.  The birds keep singing, unaware and uncaring that the grass grows tall inside the walls.  Mycroft continues down the path, his shoes crunching along the gravel.  He expects someone to come running down the lane when the house comes into view: it looks exactly as it must have done every day of its existence: the brick edifice solid and unchangeable.  A footman to take his coat, to ask his name, a maid to bring him a glass of water.

 

It’s only when he reaches the house that he sees the broken windows, the door broken in two and hanging open. 

 

He doesn’t stop walking.  Instead, he goes directly inside, because if he stops, he might never start walking again.

 

The rooms are empty.  Even Mycroft’s breath echoes.  He moves from room to room – there is not so much as a stick of furniture left.  Not a pencil.  Not a paperclip.  Everything is gone.  Light fixtures hang lopsided from the walls and the ceilings; there are deep gouges in the wooden floors, and a few tell-tale scrapes along the wallpaper and banisters.  Mycroft could read them if he wanted – he could deduce where the tables and chairs stood, where the heavy machinery rested on the concrete in the cellars.  He could count the number of rooms that served as bedrooms, how many people slept there, and if they were awake or not when the end came.

 

He doesn’t.  Instead, he walks from room to room to room, not entirely sure what he’s looking for, only that he hasn’t found it yet.

 

He does, eventually – a room on the first floor, toward the rear of the house, with a window overlooking the gardens that have become overgrown with neglect.  It’s a small little room which had two single beds on opposite sides of the window, and a small fireplace on another wall. 

 

And then he sees it – a deep divot in the mantle, exactly as if someone had stuck a knife there to hold something.  When Mycroft examines it, he can just see the bit of paper embedded there, where it was torn as the knife pinned it, where it remained even after someone had wrenched the knife away to take it with them.

 

He touches the divot lightly.

 

This was Sherlock’s room, then.  Mycroft stands in the exact center, imagines the shouts and the screams throughout the house, the thunderous crashes as everything and everyone is boxed and carted away, and taken somewhere to be sorted and catalogued and given new purpose.

 

Sherlock would have fought.  Of course he would have fought.  Would he have been asleep?  Would he have been working?  Would he have fought for his life, or for the preservation of information that had been more precious to him than life itself?

 

The tears are too much, and Mycroft pulls the handkerchief from his pocket, wipes them away, turning from the window. 

 

And then – bugger it all.  He turns to the window and sobs with the thin sun on his face, because they are watching, they might as well know.  They have followed him to Bletchley Park, surely, just as they followed him home, and they know all his secrets, even the ones they have pretended to ignore because he is still some measure of useful to them.

 

Usefulness always has an expiration date.

 

Maybe they will come into this room and kill him and be done with it, because surely Sherlock and Greg are dead along with John and Sherrinford, and Mycroft has never believed in the afterlife, but whatever comes next, it must be better than this hell on earth.

 

*

 

_Their orgasms come over them quickly, but the truth is that they have been building so slowly, they only notice them when they’re about to break, when it’s too late to stop the momentum, when they have to forge ahead because there is no sense in turning back._

_(True of everything, in the end, or so Mycroft will think later.)_

_Greg cries out first, and Mycroft covers his mouth with his hand, whispers words in his ear that mean everything and nothing, pulls Greg through it even though he can barely hold on himself.  His voice breaks as Greg is coming down; it’s his turn now, and the pain is so exquisitely sharp that Mycroft can’t continue to speak any longer.  Greg kisses him, over and over, small exhausted kisses, quiet hushes, though Mycroft never makes a sound as his pleasure spills over them both._

_They hold each other after, wet skin cooling in the warm summer air.  The train moves them along at a brisk pace toward their forgotten destination, gently rocking them together._

_Neither of them speak; there aren’t any words left that need saying._

 

*

 

He returns to London in a fog. 

 

He goes to Gower Street in the morning, and then Downing Street, and continues his work, blindly helping the Germans to prepare for their planned assault on the Soviet Union and the Middle East.

 

He returns to Montague Street, and five minutes after he goes inside, the lights go on in the house across the way.

 

*

 

Waterloo Station is crowded when Mycroft and his handlers arrive.  Rudolf is jovial – his girlfriend lives just outside Berlin, and he has already made plans to see her the first weekend after they arrive.  Gunter is more sedate.  His knapsack bulges with the biscuits and bread he has pilfered from the cafeteria, a squirrel storing up for what is surely to be a bleak winter ahead.

 

The sun is beating down through the glass ceiling, turning the station into a sauna in the July heat.  Mycroft is cold, disinterested, numb to everything around him.  He follows Rudolf and Gunter through the crowd, letting the other people jostle him, his ears straining for the last bits of English he’s likely to hear in his lifetime.

 

“…train to Cardiff on platform eight…”

 

“…the last bit of bacon, I think it’s past  its best but….”

 

“…Colin, stay _out of the Germans’ way_ , how many times do I have to tell you…?”

 

He has no doubt that they won’t let him return to London.  He supposes he should be grateful they let him return at all.   The London he had loved as a younger man – and the people he loved who resided in it – are long since gone.  Even if they let him, there is no reason to return.

 

“Platform ten,” says Rudolf, and Mycroft follows him.  The crowds of people press in next to him; all of London might be at the station to wave goodbye for all Mycroft knows.  Goodbye and good riddance, he is sure.  After Berlin, he will return to Cairo, and then on to Palestine, and after that…Mycroft doesn’t know anymore.  It doesn’t matter very much, anyway.  Palestine is extremely volatile; it’s likely he won’t survive.

 

It’s likelier still that by then, he won’t want to.

 

He can see Rudolf and Gunter’s hats in the crowd, their distinctive muddy color and the sharp lines jutting up to the sky.  He follows them, without even bothering to look at the signs.  The crowd grows thicker the closer to the platforms they get – a train must have arrived – and Mycroft struggles to keep up.  It wouldn’t do to be left behind.  He thinks of Wilkes, of the quick shot to the center of his forehead, of the razor-sharp suspicion with the thin veneer of trust.

 

A boy bumps into him and goes tumbling to the ground.  Mycroft’s response is automatic, the manners almost as natural as breathing.  He bends down, helps the lad to his feet.  A street urchin of some sort, given the smell and the dirt caked on his clothes.  The boy scampers away without uttering a word of thanks, and when Mycroft scans the crowd ahead of him, Gunter and Rudolf’s hats are just visible as they step through the doorways to the platform itself.

 

Mycroft follows them, picking up his pace.  The train is already beginning to huff and puff, and he sees his handlers clamber on board, disappearing inside without even a glance behind them.  Mycroft only just manages to catch the handle by the door before it starts to move, and nearly stumbles and loses his footing.

 

There’s a moment when he _could_ – he could let go and fall onto the tracks.  If he survived, they’d shoot him soon enough.  At least he’d die on English soil.

 

But instead, hands reach out and grab him, steady him, pull him onto the train that is already picking up speed. 

 

“There you are,” says his savior cheerfully, as if he’d expected someone to leap aboard the train at the last minute all along.  “Didn’t want to wait for the next train, did you?”

 

“There is no next train,” says Mycroft wearily, and straightens his jacket before heading down the corridor.

 

The train sways back and forth; he can see one of his handlers up ahead, making his way past the individual compartments.  There is no sign of the other; perhaps he’s gone ahead to find them a place to sit.  Mycroft follows, and has nearly caught up when his handler ducks into a compartment.

 

By the time Mycroft joins him, the man has shed the uniform jacket and hat, and is already kicking off the shoes.

 

“It’s the shoes that give you away,” says Greg Lestrade apologetically.  “Jerrys are the only ones who bother to shine them anymore.”

 

Mycroft’s knees give way; Greg catches him and lowers him carefully to one of the benches.

 

“Easy now,” he says, his hand over Mycroft’s heart.  “Sorry, old fellow, I didn’t mean to—“

 

“Yes, you did,” said Mycroft, and catches Greg by the back of his head, and pulls him close for a kiss.

 

Greg is laughing when he comes up for air, blinking hard.  “Hold that thought.  I need to lock the door.  And maybe wait until we’re really on our way.  It’s not a proper escape until we’re out of London, you know.”

 

Mycroft tenses.  “My handlers—“

 

“You _are_ slow today,” says Greg, amused.  “We’re duping them the same way we duped you.  They won’t figure it out until they reach their compartment, at which point they’re going to take a nice little nap so they can’t inform anyone.”

 

Mycroft thinks of Rudolf’s girlfriend waiting patiently in Berlin, and shoves the thought out of his mind.  He can’t think about her.  He _won’t_.

 

“We?” he asks.

 

Greg smiles.  “Loose lips sink ships.  Or boats, in our case – and there’s a certain boat off the coast that we don’t much want to sink anytime soon, thanks.  The doc wouldn’t appreciate that in the least; he didn’t trek halfway across the Afghan desert just to sink in Cardiff Bay.”

 

Mycroft can barely breathe.  “And…Sherlock?”

 

Greg cups Mycroft’s cheek, and leans in to press their foreheads together.  “Alive, as far as we know.  We’re going to find him, Mycroft.  I promise.”

 

Mycroft nods and closes his eyes.  He breathes in the scent of Greg – the pomade in his hair, the fresh, clean scent of his skin.  He can almost taste the tang of dirt and overgrown foliage.

 

“You were there,” he says, wonderingly.  “In Bletchley.”

 

“Yeah,” admits Greg, his voice husky and low.  “Been watching you.  Wasn’t sure if you—”

 

Mycroft doesn’t let him finish the sentence.  It doesn’t matter anyway.

 

“Me either,” he admits, so quietly that he thinks Greg might not have even heard it.  Which is probably just as well. 

 

But Greg smiles at him, and goes to lock the door.  He draws the shades on the window, and sits next to Mycroft, kissing his fingertips one by one, as the train rocks them slowly home.


End file.
